untitled haibun.

[heslopian]

Edit 1.
It was good to see that “my” oak tree was still standing. I had just walked the path from the beach to the high meadow, passing the fallen heroes of another age. They had stood for centuries, becoming vast in girth and their reach of shelter. One by one they did not wake from their winter slumbers. Their leaves withered and they failed to answer the whispering wind. The power of the passing storm tore them from their anchorage, splitting open diseased hearts and laying them bare. Re-sculpting the landscape.
A similar work had been wrought on the beach. Re-moulded, the debris swept away and a firm smooth expanse left, inviting to the foot and eye. Unsullied by the fallen land and low tide litter. The only adornments, were a few bright pebbles and some shells; arranged on the lower skirts of the tide reach – looking like a necklace of gems glittering in early morning light. I know, that if I can hear the rattle of bones and see the broken ribs of an ancient sailing ship that came home when she ran adrift, then the storm was significant and I then like to check on the Oaks. (Mentioned in the history books, the ship carried passengers and supplies).

Standing oak, new growth -
A shipment of grain and wine.
Well seasoned export.

The prose reminds me of how Virginia Woolf wrote: with intense detail, magnifying, illuminating and anthropomorphising even the smallest images. The haiku is brilliant because it's level-headed, well-structured and subtle. I've read so many haiku (some my own) which are just lazy tossings together of a few meagre words that have no respect for what a haiku's meant to be that reading yours was uplifting. Cheers, cidermaid